BLOOD AGAINST BLOOD
by QueenofVannin
Summary: This is a first draft, unedited work in progress. This is a historical romance, the War of the Roses told from the point of view of six influential women of the time.


**1. The Rose of Raby**

_Cecily Neville_

_**England, Raby Castle, Early October 1424**_

NINE year old Cicely observed her semblance in the polished copper plate mirror, brows raised with interest. Her long dark tresses were brushed and crimped with sweet smelling linseed, held back by a headband of pale, pink lacquered roses. With one hand she touched the right side of her face, it was warm and flushed. She outstretched her arms and twirled around with the poise and grace of a dancer to view her rear. She was not certain she liked the color of her new gown, deep yellow damask trimmed with soft sable.

"You look splendid milady." Mistress Sewell whispered timidly, sniffling into her handkerchief. A swift, sharp glance from her ladyship, Joan Beaufort silenced her.

"Well daughter, if all is to your liking perhaps we can make our way down to the solar. We are more than one hour late."

"I do not know why I must be present at all. I am just to be flaunted…like a pretty prize to a dirt faced boy!"

"Cecily, you will silence your mouth if you have naught pleasant to say. Richard Plantagenet _is_ the pretty prize and certainly no dirt faced boy. In this betrothal you shall become the Duchess of York, the wealthiest and most powerful woman in England, after the queen."

Cecily had heard her mother reason over and over again how fortunate this match would be for _"…one of the many daughters of Westmoreland"._ Ralph Neville adored his youngest daughter so that he was loathe to surrender her up at all but if he must, he wanted a _king_ or a _crowned prince_ for her, Then again, he was even more deign to offer her hand in marriage to a foreigner, no matter how mighty. Such unions only caused dynastic confusion resulting in inevitable bloody strife. Ralph Neville was fond of his thirteen year old ward, Richard Plantagenet of York, who by royal edict came to live under his tutelage at the tender age of seven. He spent much time training and grooming the youth to shoulder his future responsibilities as the Duke of York.

_He was certain he was the man for his darling Cis._

Cecily motioned for her attendant to bring her hand warmer. With a shrug of her shoulders and a deep sigh she proclaimed, "I am ready."

Joan shook her head disapprovingly. Cecily certainly had no need of the hand warmer other than it looked pretty but little did the fretful mother know how cold and clammy Cicely's hands were from the anticipation of the meeting although she managed to fool them all by her cool, poker face.

Cicely struggled to keep apace with her mother's swift steps, lifting the hem of her new dress with one hand. Lady Joan's keys clinked and jangled as she moved along, turning her head to her ladies, chattering orders. There would be a special feast tonight to celebrate the sealing of the betrothal, roast stag and _maybe_ the great boar Cecily saw the esquires struggle to carry into the cookhouse days ago, fresh baked pies and breads, gravies and succulent fish from the stew pond…._maybe _even a grand multilayered cake. _It was Richard's birthday to boot after all._

"I do hope there will be cake, frosted thick with whipped butter cream," her mouth salivated. She could almost taste it now.

They arrived suddenly to the door of the solar. Lady Joan gave her daughter a stern look that softened suddenly when she discerned the uncertainty in the large blue eyes.

"All will be well, daughter…" she sighed gracing her with a soft kiss upon the brow. "Aye, and there shall be cake anon."

THE ROOM became suddenly silent when the door opened and the arrivals entered. Ralph Neville broke into a cheerful grin and all rose to their feet bowing to acknowledge the presence of the women.

"Now if she is not the loveliest maiden ever to grace the moors of the North! Come give your father a kiss child," Westmoreland said with a boisterous laugh as he took her into his arms. He looked over Cecily's shoulder to his wife standing prim and meek. "For certes her beauty was an inheritance from her dame. Am I not the luckiest man alive?"

"Oh Papa…"

"Now greet your lordships, pet," Westmoreland said gesturing to the others in the room.

"My lords, welcome to Raby," Cecily said resuming her poise as she curtsied, acknowledging them individually, purposely leaving Richard Plantagenet for last. "My lord, 'tis a pleasure to see you again."

Richard clad in a rich doublet of crimson velvet, trimmed with black sable and gold bowed exquisitely letting his luminous brown eyes fix upon hers. His dark brown hair, cut into a shoulder length bob framed his round pale face. He wore a golden coronet that gleamed bright with the light from the hearth fire, a rich medallion laid sparkling upon his chest. She was awe-struck at the sight of him looking so resplendent in all his finery. _God forgive her for calling him a dirt faced boy!_

"_My lady…" _he said quietly observing her with keen interest. The manner in which he said those words made it clear to her childish heart that he was intrigued by the fact this precocious ten year old would one day be his wife, the woman with whom he would share the long road of life alongside, his duchess, partner, lover.

She was frozen, numb until he held out his hand for hers. Her smile at first was timid, suddenly became emboldened as he tossed the hand warmer aside. She placed her hand in his and he raised her to her feet closing his eyes, to place a gentle kiss upon it. It did not seem to faze him at all that the hand was cold and clammy. Alas, now he knew she was nervous, so much for the hand warmer.

"Mere words can not express my pleasure in seeing your fair face again, so I hope this gift shall suffice to convey my delight at our merry meeting."

At his prompting a minstrel clad in gay colors appeared from his place by the hearth and began strumming a lovely chanson upon his lute. He sang so sweetly, directing all his attention on the maiden until she felt her knees would melt away.

All the rest was a blur to Cecily as the men perused the writ and tweaked out the final details of the betrothal contract. All she knew was the exhilaration of being seated beside Richard who still had a firm hold on her hand. Her father donned his spectacles placing them askew upon the bridge of his nose. He reached for his quill, dipped it into the ink pot and signed with a flourish. She attempted to be discreet when she turned to face Richard. He was looking at her all along, smiling handsomely. He gave a quick naughty wink which almost made her laugh.

It was at that joyful moment she knew she would love Richard Plantagenet, Duke of York_… forever._

_**England, Raby Castle, October, 1425**_

THE BELLS of St. Mary's tolled somberly as the venerable Earl of Westmoreland was laid to rest. In his lifetime he had been the lord and master of vast estates, guardian of various wards in the service to the Crown, husband to two influential women and father to twenty three children. It was a devastating day for young Cecily who continued to distance herself from her numerous siblings and pesky neighbors. Her lids were heavy, now feeling the effects of the night long vigil over her father corse. The only person she could tolerate was her youngest sister, Joan. The weary six year old clung tenaciously to her skirts. Joan, born alive after her mother had endured five consecutive pregnancies all ending in stillbirths was very dear to Cecily. It was the first birth Cecily had ever witnessed and it was a drama she would not soon forget. Finally they slipped back into the church unnoticed and sat awhile in the still quiet, out of the October chill.

Cecily covered her face with one hand from beneath her veil and wept silently, clutching a sniffling Joan close to her. She felt a warm, steady hand upon her shoulder taking her quite by surprise.

"Pray, we wish to be left alone. Go away," she turned her head slowly, her voice quivered betraying her emotional state. To her dismay, the hand did not stir and there was no response. She shot out her seat and found the gloved hand was that of Richard Plantagenet. _"My lord…"_

Richard's face was framed by the dark of his hair. He wore a black velvet cap adorned with a broach featuring a dangling pearl. Upon his shoulders was a heavy fur lined cloak, over a doublet of black velvet. He was splendid all in black.

"Forgive my intrusion on your privacy. I saw you wander this way and hoped I might take this opportunity to express my condolences. Your loss is _all_ our loss my Lady Cecily…" he broke into a sad smile when he saw little Joan face peer from the edge of the pew, _"….and my Lady Joan."_

"We thank you for your kind words. We know, father loved you as dearly as his own sons," Cecily nodded; glad she restrained her initial reaction to jump into her arms and bawl her eyes out, to test his patience and capability to console a woman in distress. In truth the sight of Richard brightened her mood for he represented the hope of _their_ future, the future of England.

"I was privileged and proud to live under his wardship… as his son."

"Cis! Cis!" A voice cried out her name from a distance.

"Oh, methinks I hear our mother call," Cecily said taking Joan by the hand. They curtsied, prepared to take their leave.

"May I escort you back, my lady? It would give me the greatest pleasure."

"Will we all hold hands, milord Richard?" Joan said in a droll, tiny voice looking reverently up to Richard in the gloomy dark of the church.

"If it please you, my lady Joan."

_**Leicestershire, May 1426**_

CECILY was giddy the night through knowing Richard Plantagenet was keeping vigil with the other candidates for knighthood. If only she could slip away and catch a glimpse, the weather was temperate, Mistress Sewell was fast asleep… the temptation almost got the best of her but it would be most inappropriate behavior. She did not want to tempt her mother's ire. Unlike her late father who found it impossible to withhold any luxury, or lavish gift his daughter sweetly demanded, Joan Beaufort would be swift to yank her ear for her gall. If her mother found her slipping out in the night in search of Richard Plantagenet she might feel the sting of the strap on her bare skin, have naught but broth for supper and have to spend an entire day at prayer. Oh, but what sweet dreams sleep conjured in her fanciful girlish mind. She turned in the bed and clutched her pillow tight whispering with mock passion… _Richard, O'Richard._

"_O Richard," _Cecily muttered behind the wispy veil watching as Richard Plantagenet and the seven other candidates marched down the crimson carpet to the altar to receive the conferment of knighthood. He was the first one in the procession, not the tallest in the line, but sturdy and well proportioned for his age. He wore a long, trailing mantle and the colors symbolizing knighthood. His hands were clasped prayerfully and his demeanor was noble and serious as he stared forward, refusing to be distracted. John of Lancaster, Duke of Bedford stood at the base of the altar clad in a magnificent houpeland with voluminous sleeves reaching to the hem. In his right hand he grasped the hilt of a shining blade. He was watching the lads make their way to him. Cecily could not discern if it was gratification or conceit that caused him to break into the slightest grin. It mattered not a whit to her that he was King Henry V's own brother. She did not like the cruel, cold gleam in his eyes.

Cecily crossed herself and held her breath as Richard knelt down with arms outstretched to proclaim his oath of fealty. The Duke of Bedford was smiling all the while and then spoke to acknowledge the oath. He suddenly lifted the blade and laid the flat of it firmly upon Richard's right shoulder, then the left uttering these words.

"…by St. Michael and St. George, I dub thee a knight. Rise, Sir Richard Plantagenet of York and be girded."


End file.
